


Strength

by floatawaysomedays



Series: Topple up tail. [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Western, Guns, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:37:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatawaysomedays/pseuds/floatawaysomedays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>western AU series thing. planning on a continuation, at some point.<br/>not frontierland in the slightest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strength

Castiel is ten when they first meet

There’s a boy about his age standing next to the horses, stock still and serious, outside of the bar. It’s the middle of the day and the sun isn’t showing any sign of letting up. Gabriel swipes candy from the jar on the counter when their father isn’t looking, and points Cas towards him. His apron is dusty from the shelves in the storeroom where Cas was reading by himself.

“Go on, Cassy, he won’t bite.”

Cas thinks he’s full of shit, but Gabriel is eighteen and wiser and he guides Cas down the steps and then there’s really no choice.

The other boy eyes him warily, but his hand twitches when he catches sight of the peppermint stick Cas is holding out, and he takes it. Eventually.

He doesn’t bite, he _laughs._

Cas learns the name of his horse, first. A beautiful black mare that’s taller than Dean. Baby nuzzles the brim of Dean’s hat, affectionately. He jokes about the guns on the other horse, bigger and meaner than anything Gabriel uses for hunting. Dean’s laughter is like water breaking over rocks, clear and sweet.

He’s a mystery. An enigma. Dean rides from town to town, and Cas knows exactly what his father does. It’s not a far leap to the words ‘bounty hunter’. Not in this part of the state.

Cas has been told he’s too serious for his age -it’s why he’s sporting a black eye from a run-in with a boy a few days ago- but Dean doesn’t seem to mind. He asks about the book he’s carrying under his arm, dog-eared and worn. Cas hands it over. He’s finished it a few times, and Dean doesn’t come out and ask, but Cas offers it to him.

The look he receives in return is more than grateful. Dean handles it with care, tucking it away.

He turns while he’s riding out of town with his father, and smiles at Cas, the peppermint stick caught in the corner of his mouth. He tips his hat back, and spurs his horse on.

Cas smiles back.

 

***

Cas is rearranging the spices when they meet again. He’s sixteen, now. Gabriel is out of town and Cas is running the store. Their father followed their mother to his grave two years ago.

Dean is alone. He’s grown, taller and rougher around the edges. The six-shooter and the bandana tied around his neck, ripped and filthy, are telling enough.

He’s worrying his hat in his hands when he finally steps up to the counter. His eyes roam, over the counter and the back wall, to the apron tied around Cas’s waist and the messy shock of hair. And then green seems to decide and settle on blue. “Heya, Cas.”

His voice is just like Cas remembers. His nickname sounds different, coming from Dean, and he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Brought back your book.” Dean reaches into his coat, and pulls out the tattered pages of ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’. A few other papers get sorted through and stuffed back into his pocket, and then he’s staring at Cas. Waiting for him to take it.

Dean sticks around for a few hours this time. The store is quiet, and he sits on the counter while they talk. Dean has a younger brother hidden away someplace safe, learning to be a lawyer. He’s still hunting.

Cas tells him about the store, about Gabriel expanding. He shows him the full bookshelf in the back, and hands Dean one he thinks he’ll enjoy.

Dean looks grateful, and twelve, all over again. “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas shrugs, crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s no trouble.”

When Dean starts to reach out, it startles him. Cas flinches, and Dean pulls back immediately.

“I’m sor-”

“No,” Cas shakes his head and steps closer, into Dean’s space. Catches Dean’s hand and holds it up to his cheek. The calluses rasp against his skin. “No, don’t be sorry.”

Dean swipes the pad of his thumb under his eye and along his jawline. Cas almost closes his eyes, but he doesn’t want to lose this, or forget it.

They get lost in it, for a few moments, and then Dean sighs as the bell over the front door sounds off. The wind pushing on the screen door. “I should go.”

Dean is a beautiful tumbleweed destined for grand, dangerous adventures, and Cas is rooted in this godforsaken town for the rest of his life counting Mrs. Rolen’s tomatoes and marking the ledger and suddenly he can’t stand the idea of Dean leaving. He  _hates_  it. He hates that he might not get to know the young man behind the hat and the gun and the spurs. The intelligent spark under the bravado. The way he speaks about Tom Sawyer as if he understands.

He can’t just let him go.

Cas grabs at the sleeve of his jacket as he turns, holding steady and firm. He’s strong, too, from bearing the weight of flour and crates of fruit. He’s a different sort of strong than Dean is, but no less. “Don’t make me wait another six years to see you again.”

“Can I- I mean I’d like to, if I could, it’s just..” Dean looks skyward and shakes his head, collecting his thoughts, mulling it over. When he looks back he’s very serious. “Would you read my letters if I wrote to you?” Dean grips Cas’s elbow, and then his hand moves until he’s tangling and threading and twisting their fingers together. It feels like sparks are shooting through Cas’s palms and up his arm. Dean whispers, “Please say yes.”

“Dean,” His hand fits so neatly in Dean’s. So easily. Like the lines are puzzles pieces made for each other, perfectly sculpted. Like the figurines molded together for eternity in the glass case out front. “Of course I will.”

***

“Ain’t that your cowboy, Castiel?”

It’s November, and just barely snowing. His jacket is pulled tightly around him. He’s leaning against the railing, a match cupped in his hands. He’s almost got the damn cigarette lit, too, when Rufus calls to him from his place out front.

Cas is twenty.

He’s been teased about his ‘cowboy’ before. It never ceases to amaze him when someone with news of Dean runs straight to him. When the coach arrives with the mail, and there’s a letter with his name in Dean’s easy script. Creased and sometimes ripped, but brand new in every other way. Dean’s words are always fresh. There’s always something exciting out in the world that he’s tending to, and Cas doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of reading about songs around campfires and storms on the prairie. About robbers and justice and Dean and Sam.

It’s a small town (and he’s the Mayor, now), so naturally everyone is aware that Cas is topple up tail with a man that has fire in his heart.

But something is off about the way Rufus says it. The normal teasing lilt is off, somehow, and after Cas lights up, he turns to look.

It’s a quiet evening, so people aren’t milling around. Most are in their homes, tending their fires, or at the bar getting a quick drink. The store is just past closing hours. It’s… peaceful.

Except there’s a black horse coming down the street at full tilt, and Dean is slumped over the horn of his saddle.

“Dean?!”

Cas jumps into action, taking the stairs two or three at a time, and waves his hands to get Baby to stop. She’s touchy around anyone that isn’t Dean, so he’s careful. Easy with her as he finally grabs the reins and pats her neck.

He grips Dean’s knee, lashed to the stirrup, and holds on. “Dean? Can you hear me?”

He’s tied to the saddle, Cas has to cut him down, and then Dean is a dead weight he barely catches. Cas calls for Rufus, who manages to call for Ellen and Gabriel and the doctor, Joshua.

The back of Dean’s coat is soaked with blood. Cas’s hands come away bright red and wet.

“No, Dean.” He mumbles into his hair, flaked with snow. He’s cold where he’s pressed against Cas. “You don’t get to die on me.”

He’s been whipped.

Literally.

Joshua patches him up in the small comfort of Castiel’s bedroom. It’s not much, only a two room cabin with the bare necessities, but it’s better than nothing and Dean isn’t up to complaining right now anyway. Cas strips away Dean’s coat and his shirt and something falls on the wooden floor, skittering across to the dresser. He rushes after it and pricks his finger picking it up.

It’s a silver star.

‘ **U.S. MARSHAL** ’ stands out in big, block letters, and Cas wants to fold up with his back to the dresser and Dean’s coat pressed to his chest and _mourn._ He almost drops the thing in his hand, it feels so heavy all of a sudden. Alive with a weight of it’s own. Dean is twenty-two and everyone _knows_  what happens to Marshals. They don’t survive, they don’t get out.

Joshua is yelling at him to  _fetch the damn hot water Gabriel fixed_ , so he tries to shove those thoughts to a dark corner of his mind and pull himself together.

He places the badge, reverent and shocked and shaky, on his dresser next to Dean’s letters. He tries not to think about why Dean didn’t tell him. Why it was kept a secret. Why he had been holding out hope that Dean would sift and finally settle with him, here.

Cas fetches the water instead, it’s less to think about.

He cares for Dean. He sits, awake and exhausted, in a chair at the bed until Dean wakes and makes a low, unhappy noise in his throat. Dean tells him about Alastair, and meets him two days later, when he shows up with a group of five.

Cas stands on his porch, hands in his pockets, Dean’s revolver slung around his hips, and wishes they would take a shot at him, the cowards.

They don’t.

The group gets together and decides it isn’t worth it, especially with Rufus and Gabriel and Uriel backing him. They try to bail, turn tail and run. Luckily, Cas planned for that in advance and barricaded the only exit out of town. Dean is action and rushing in and _use me as bait_. Cas is careful paperwork and budgets and _not without backup_.

It works. They’re in custody before the end of the hour, on their way to town.

Dean listens and laughs, lightly at Gabriel’s antics. He falls asleep, warm and heavy, on Cas’s chest in the hush of the cabin. Cas presses his lips to Dean’s forehead and wonders how long he’ll get to keep him this time. 

Dean leaves a week later.

He’s not completely healed, not even close, but some part of him can’t stay cooped up, under wraps, for any longer. A part of him aches for the road.

He’s tying the fresh bandana around his neck, a gorgeous navy that contrasts against his black coat. Snow crunches under Baby’s hooves as she shifts impatiently.

“You’re foolish,” Cas is holding Dean’s spare rifle in the crook of his arm. A precautionary measure, or so Dean tells him. “ _Marshal_.”

“I’ll be fine, _Mayor_.” Dean shakes his head and smiles, his hat is in the seat of the saddle, and his hair sticks up. He doesn’t seem to be in too much pain, rubbing his cheek against Cas’s before kissing him slow and chaste. “Take care of yourself, Cas.”

Cas looks up, because he knows exactly what Dean means, and echoes the sentiment. “You too, Dean.”

Dean's eyes are warm when he looks back, his badge catches the sunlight for a moment and Cas waves.

He spurs Baby on, and Cas smiles.

 


End file.
